


The Great Storm

by VictoriaBlaze



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Intimacy, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25540672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VictoriaBlaze/pseuds/VictoriaBlaze
Summary: London, 1703. Winter is upon the city. The makings of a terrible storm are more than 'on the wind,' they are ripping tiles from rooftops, threatening to topple chimneys, and forcing the inhabitants of the bustling metropolis to take cover in their homes. The exception to this is Aziraphale, who is hard at work helping all he's able before the tempest hits. The principality thinks of nothing else until he passes through St. James Park and crosses paths with an angel he thought he would never see again.This is Imamiah's second story, taking place in London at the start of the Great Storm of 1703.Content Warning: emotional/psychological abuse, psychological trauma, intimacy, abuse recovery
Kudos: 4





	The Great Storm

St James’ Park wasn’t quiet. Aziraphale couldn’t remember a time when it had been. If not the sound of ducks bickering on the steel-grey water, then the snap and chatter of tradesmen passing greetings, or the sharp curl of street-urchin slang. If neither, then the clattering of horses on the road, or the subdued murmur of the promenading gentlefolk.

Tonight, all sounds were cowed into obscurity by the wind. It shrieked through the streets, gathering up debris to hurl into the eyes of those still unfortunate enough to have business on such a night. It clawed the rooftops hungrily, prying slates loose and whistling down the open throats of chimneys.

Outside the city, there was talk of windmills catching fire simply from the fury of their spinning sails. Huddled in a blue woolen coat and muffler, the angel could imagine it. White canvas, smouldering and falling from charring vanes, like feathers falling from burning wings. He shuddered and pulled the coat more closely around himself. He’d been awaiting a letter, a sign - _something_ from Above - to direct him in his duties. In its absence, he’d done what he could. The foul weather had barely lifted for more than ten days, and the streets were awash with those in need. A human Flood.

Not a thought he wanted keeping him company tonight. Aziraphale shook his head, hunching his shoulders against another chilly blast, glad that the fashion for wigs was finally dwindling. In half an hour he’d be home, warm in the cosy rooms of the flat he let above the bakery. Then, once he’d fortified himself with a piece of the fresh bread that the baker had thoughtfully kept for him, perhaps with a little sage cheese melted into it, he’d set out once more, looking for the places where desperation had built up like rust, where love flickered and faded. Looking for some Good to do, until Heaven set him on a new path.

A stray gust kicked a branch off the grass and past Aziraphale, taking his eye from the road ahead instead to a figure standing by the choppy waters of the pond at the heart of the green. It was a vague shadow clad in greys, and the man appeared to be staring at him. Something about the shape froze his blood and he slowed, uncertain why he would feel such trepidation. The storm had taken most sensible people indoors by this hour, so perhaps it was the way this man stood so oblivious to the maelstrom, so statuesque and certain, that he felt nearly rooted to the gravel.

The figure drew towards him with deliberate moderation in its step and the details came into sharper focus. He was of darker complexion, suited in an unadorned justacorps and form-tailored breeches. His dark hair was tied smartly back into a long tail, and he seemed to have little regard for the cold, as he lacked any neckwear at all. His hands, clad in black leather gloves, were firmly, near-mechanically stuck to his side. A match struck in Aziraphale’s chest as emotion flared at the recognition.

“Surely…” He straightened, suddenly a little ashamed of his own susceptibility to the weather, and withdrew his hands from the relative cosiness of his scarf, feeling it instantly try to take flight. “Imamiah… dear boy, is it you?” As he appraised the other figure, the certainty grew in his chest, and he offered a tentative smile. “It’s been aeons…”

Imamiah’s face was a mask of cold detachment as he halted before his fellow principality. Aziraphale searched that bronze imperviousness, his concerned gaze falling to the man’s temples. Slight brushes of grey swept them back like tender brush strokes. He seemed older now, though the corporation was the same. Such a physical change in a celestially attuned body was something he had never seen. They were not intended to age.

“Aziraphale,” he spoke finally, passing a seemingly indifferent, appraising eye over the angel. “Yes, it has been some time. I apologize for coming to you in such a way, but I was given few options.”

Those grey brushes, slight though they were, sank a chill into Aziraphale’s chest that made the wind seem balmy by comparison. _What did they do to you?_ And, on the heels of this: _What judgement is upon us now?_

“You’ve never owed me an apology for anything, Imamiah. Come home with me. Out of this weather. There’s some hot broth in the inglenook - you look as if you could do with it.” He put his hand out, knowing and dismissing the litany of reasons why he shouldn’t. “Come on. It’s not far.”

The man’s hard silver eyes glanced down at the extended hand, and in response he slipped his own into his pockets. Squaring his shoulders, he leveled a look at Aziraphale. “I mustn’t,” he answered coldly, automatically. Something that echoed with the venom of several other being’s intentions behind it. “I’m only here to warn you. Then you can decide what to do with it.”

Aziraphale didn’t withdraw his hand all at once. Looking at the other’s eyes, it dropped away like a green stem wilted by fire. He was accustomed to the unspoken circle of space that he carried with him when he visited Heaven. The veiled looks and careful smiles. But even after the long years lying between them, he hadn’t forgotten the way that warm, tender emotion had flowed between the men, carrying Her presence like the half-caught scent of honeysuckle on a summer wind.

“Warn me?” He winced as a tile shattered on stone a few streets away. “Who sent you, Imamiah? Is this an Edict?”

“No,” he flatly intoned. “No one is escaping this one.” Pausing, he glanced at the rough landscape around them. The anarchistic wind had already taken its toll on the soft foliage of St. James, tossing the greenery around the pathways like loose rags. A small clump of leafage tumbled across the ground, knocking against his plain buckled shoe. Taking a long, drawn breath, he looked back at Aziraphale.

“I suppose… somewhere out of the wind would be acceptable.”

Grateful for even this small concession, Aziraphale brightened and led the way along the waterside, resolving not to let dread steal up on him with the optimism of a man with a stub of candle warding off nightfall. 

He could walk the route back to the bakery with his eyes closed, and tonight it was almost necessary. In the maze of streets, the wind played tricks, hurling itself down narrow side streets, only to cut across the pair of them from another direction as they reached a junction. He looked back once or twice, just to be sure Imamiah was still with him, but it wasn’t really needed. There was a feeling behind him that had no name. It was like taking a few steps back to admire a view, and realising that one had almost backed over a precipice. A small, heavy, deadly weight settled on his heart.

The bakery was a thin, friendly stone building tucked comfortably between two imposing structures, hiding like a child between its parent’s legs. Though the windows at the front were shuttered tightly, the welcoming warmth and smell of the place wafted out across the lane as they ducked into the small space beside. Sheltered momentarily from the elements, Aziraphale stood on the narrow steps leading up to his apartment and withdrew a heavy key.

“Nearly there,” he offered casually but unnecessarily, taking the complaining stairs nearly two-at-a-time in his haste to get them inside. The key slotted heavily in and the latch turned, and in moments they were out of the storm and in the cramped, cluttered comfort of his home.

He seldom had visitors, which was apparent as soon as he’d summoned a low, pleasant light to fill the room. A candlestick stood on the hearth, the dull wax looking dusty and unused. One side of the larger room was a wall of paper. In the absence of shelves, books were piled on books, the stacks leaning in ways that physics had wisely chosen to ignore. On the other, a desk, dark wood polished here and there to a red glow by the brush of its owner’s busy hands and the soft, perpetual pressure of demurely-sleeved forearms. 

The second room was lit only by the overspill of radiance, but Aziraphale knew it by heart, and was in and out like a dipper in a stream, bringing a second chair with him.

“Now come and sit down, Imamiah. Whatever it is you have to say, say it as my guest, not a Visitation.”

Tentatively, as though uncertain how to act in the face of comfort, the principality withdrew his gloved hands and undid the buttons of his long coat, draping it over the back of his chair. His simple vest, undecorated and spanning the full length of his torso down to his mid-thigh, was a soft white that played sharp contrast to the greys and blacks of his suit and shirt. Noticing the small look Aziraphale gave him, he turned his gaze away in embarrassment as he sat uncomfortably down. 

“I… I do not wish to be an imposition,” he mumbled, the coldness receding slightly like a break in the frost of a long, harsh winter.

“Not at all,” Aziraphale reassured, removing his own coat and hooking it on a wrought hanger beside the meager fireplace to dry once it was filled and lit. Taking a knee, the principality set to the task of gaining them some amount of warmth and comfort with a fire. Having done some form of the ritual for millenia now, it was a near-automatic routine that took only moments. A small breath on the blooming tinder, and soon the hearth was alight with life.

“Now. I have broth, which isn’t all that inspiring, but will scare away the chill. Or tea - people are getting terribly excited about it these days, and I’m rather fond of it myself.” He dusted off his hands, noting with dismay that a smudge of ash had appeared on his cuff, but contented himself with the thought that it might be miracled away later. “What can I offer you, my dear?”

He turned away from the fire, moving aside so that its heat might reach Imamiah, and reached for the kettle.

“I do not consume foodstuffs,” he muttered joylessly. Aziraphale paused, his hand hovering just at the edge of the kettle’s handle. He closed his eyes briefly, grateful that his back was to the man.

“Imamiah…” He left the kettle where it was, pressing his palms together in an unconscious echo of prayer. Angelic memory, while not the clear and perfect record a mortal might imagine, was long and capacious, and Aziraphale had kept those brightest moments of his long existence preserved in places of honour. One of them had been the other principality, taking a hesitant bite of a fig, and surprised pleasure suffusing his face like the glow of morning.

How could this be the same being? His eyes were the same, but they had a brittle, hard shine. His face no different, yet it was still and loveless…

“Brother. Where have you been? What happened to you?”

“No,” he snapped. It was like a whip, sharp and immediate. “Do not call me that.”

The air thickened and dragged, and for a moment Imamiah closed his eyes tightly, fighting something inside of himself that took his entire attention away. “I’m sorry, Aziraphale. I cannot wear that title any longer. That angel resides outside of myself now, having never left Paradox.”

 _Paradox._ Aziraphale turned, something hot rising like a coal in his chest. Endless pressure, the sickening depth of abyss. To be torn apart and remade, atom by atom, washed through by the ecstatic howling of the Seraphs and frozen in abject despair by the absence of Her light. He knelt beside Imamiah’s chair, searching his face for some measure of the truth.

“Don’t tell me it’s not you. I _know_ you. Changed, but not gone. I don’t know what they’ve told you, or what horrors you’ve seen, but you’re still my brother. Imamiah… _please._ ”

The man stood so sharply he sent the chair toppling over with a clatter. Looming over Aziraphale like a thundercloud, he snarled, “You _knew_ me, Aziraphale. Do not pretend to know me now. That day-”

Clenching his teeth tight, he fought back a wave of nausea at the memory, seared deep into his soul. Swallowing audibly, he clenched his leather-clad hands into fists. “All of the rules now are from that day. From my mistakes. And from that, yes, I am changed. You… you were just there,” he stumbled, the heat of his voice unspooling. “They took you… and you worry for me as if…”

Shaking his head, Aziraphale stared up at the other angel, looking bewildered. “I was there. And we challenged them. Both of us. Don’t pretend that it was some other way. You can’t lie to me, Imamiah. It isn’t within you to lie.” Implacable though Imamiah seemed, Aziraphale could see something - some suggestion of animation behind his expression. “None of this was your fault. _None_ of it. You carry no blame that I myself should not have a part of. I won’t hear you condemn yourself for kindness.”

“I wasn’t speaking of then,” he clarified, his tone softening with each word. “I was speaking of now. Those long-ago truths are cast in iron now. The blame. The reality that it was my own foolishness, my own lack of foresight, that nearly cost the Host everything in my defiance of Her. N… nearly cost you. That is not something you can scrub away, for it is fact.”

Hesitantly, he bowed like a willow to a clear summer pond, taking a knee in front of Aziraphale. Meeting his eye, the corners of his facade cracked as his voice caught. “When I say they took you, I mean… I mean they took you to Paradox. Such a short time ago now. And I… I cannot… tell you how much that hurt me.”

Aziraphale took the words in, lost in his thoughts, which piled up like his books and threatened to bury him. How could it be guilt in Imamiah’s voice? 

“No… my dear, no. My time in Paradox was just. Yours was not. You should never have been punished for your innocence.” _Neither should they,_ he wanted to say, but held back, the words closing around his chest in a tight band. _It wasn’t justice. It was the thoughtless act of a flouted authority._ “How can I make you see?”

“I do see, Aziraphale. I see my transgressions and I have paid. Seventy years in Paradox, and from that, the loss of Principality. You cannot tell me your time was just. I have served that time, and there is no justice in it for anything you could have done. Nothing you could ever do would warrant-” Reaching out, unthinking, Imamiah nearly brought his hand to Aziraphale’s cheek but caught himself, whipping it back against his chest as though he caught it in the fireplace. Wide-eyed, he clenched his jaw. “...I’m sorry.”

“...seventy…” Aziraphale breathed the word, in case saying it louder brought something fiercer with it. The burning ember in his chest kindled, and all at once his throat felt as if a fire had been lit there. “ _Seventy._ ” His own time there had been less than one-third of that, and he’d emerged husked and fragile, taking up his duties with almost unseemly eagerness, if only to be back on the sanctuary of Earth, and engaged in the merciful distraction of work. Seventy years would have left him…

“Hollow.” It was no more than a whisper, but it fell from his lips like lead. “Imamiah, you are my brother. You may deny it, or refuse it, or do as you wish, but I will never stop offering you my hand. We’re kin. Whatever you lost in Paradox, you are still _ebbu duppussû._ ”

A violent crack echoed through the cramped room as Imamiah’s fist hit the floorboards, his face turned downward to hide his expression. “Stop, please,” he begged, his voice cracking. “You can’t say such things; those are words I do not deserve to hear. What they did to me is irrelevant compared to what I have done since. I was made to be the herald of disaster. Fires, landslides, f-floods. That… _that_ was a just punishment. But then… when you…”

His hands clenched, gripping at the wooden slats like cat claws flexed to attack. “The night I heard of what happened to you, I was meant to start the Great Fire. I did as I was instructed, but in my rage…” Bringing his face up, unable to hide his shame from Aziraphale any longer, Imamiah swallowed back his heartache and confessed: “In my outrage at your imprisonment, tens of thousands of blameless souls were displaced that were not meant to feel Her Justice. I am a monster, Aziraphale, and I am on trial again for my inherent wickedness. I am not meant to be here until tomorrow, when the cyclone hits. My final task before my Judgement. And… and I am so sorry for every hurt I have caused you in my brokenness.” 

Eyes closing, Aziraphale felt tears spill down his cheeks, still warm from the abrasive gale and the welcoming fireplace. He had read accounts of the Fire, still numbed by the onslaught of Paradox, and had spent years piecing together his compassion like a broken glass, wanting to make something stronger, more resilient, but knowing that its fragility was what made it right. He’d found a balance between distance and empathy that had served him well enough for the last few years. 

Now he felt it waver, caught between two opposing resonances. Pity for those who had lost, or been lost, in the Fire, and for Imamiah, whose catastrophic anger had been forced upon him by ones who called themselves superior. And now, he would be judged - again. Punished, again, for nothing more than allowing himself to be blown where the Heavenly gales had sent him. _It’s not fair._

In the wake of his distress, he felt Imamiah’s pronouncement settle in place. A cyclone. For a reason? Or had Heaven grown bored of itself and looked on Earth for another diversion?

“You went against their instructions… to warn me?”

With notable apprehension, Imamiah closed his eyes and nodded, the edges of his almond-shaped eyes shimmering with building tears, though this time he refused to turn away in spite of his regret and shame. “Yes,” he admitted quietly. “You are being tested, Aziraphale. I was not meant to even hear this, let alone come to warn you of it. The storm… it will kill thousands. Countless thousands. You are meant to not react on the night and allow it to happen. To see if you have... ‘learned your lesson.’”

Drawing his eyes open, a single tear dripped gently down his cheek. “There will be much more difficult events in Europe very, very soon. They are appraising you to see if you are still Worthy of your position, or if you need further…” Choking, he distantly felt himself lean closer to Aziraphale. “I-I couldn’t allow it. It will be my hand that puts the disaster to this land. I could not allow you to suffer because of me again. Promise me - if you can give me anything at all, give me your word that you will retreat underground and keep yourself safe. Please.”

 _Have I learned my lesson?_ What lesson was that? ‘Her wrath is inescapable?’ ‘Innocence - and innocents - must be sacrificed to further Her glory?’ ‘Don’t allow a serpent to distract you when you should be convincing Charles the First to make peace with Parliament?’

It didn’t really matter. It was all the same lesson: Her Will be done - on Earth, as it was in Heaven. He’d had no prior warning of the storm, but he hadn’t needed it. Day by day, it had grown in violence and severity. And had he performed miracles unsanctioned by Heaven? Of course - should he stand by and watch a pile of new-made bricks crush a workman where he stood? Allow a moody horse to startle at the booming thunder and kick an ostler to death?

And the answer, obviously, was ‘yes’. His role was obedience. Not judgement. Shakespeare had got it so terribly wrong. The quality of mercy was strained. It was budgeted, meted out to some unseen recipe known only to the Highest. And the rain was far from gentle.

He considered Imamiah, absently scrubbing the tears from his face with his fingertips. It couldn’t only be a test. She couldn’t countenance such destruction simply to gauge the reactions of one lowly principality. 

_How long have you been here?_

That was Crowley’s voice. Clearer than ever before. He tried to push it to the back of his mind, but it was insidious.

_Pull your wingtips out of your ears and listen. Doesn’t matter if you were meant to find out or not, does it? All that matters is what you do. The way I see it, you’ve got a choice. Help a few of them now. Few cheeky miracles and maybe you’ll save a handful, and then they haul you off to Paradox and you’ll come back broken. Maybe they’ll turn you into a weapon like this poor featherbrain. Or…_

_Or?_

_Or, you do as they tell you, and stay here to help with what comes after. Not just in the morning, but down the line. Sounds as if there’s plenty more where this load of Heavenly horseapples came from._

More difficult events in Europe. More tests. And behind the storm, Imamiah, who was made for so much gentler things. He put his hand out, hesitating as he saw the other angel flinch.

“Let me help you…”

It was in that moment, as Imamiah’s gaze darted between the outstretched palm and the principality’s honey-blue eyes, that Aziraphale saw the mask completely crack and break apart. Like a wounded animal, the man sat and eased himself back, very clearly afraid. The genuine distress in his manner - in his eyes - stirred the flame back to full height in Aziraphale. Without question, that night in Nippur had to have been etched onto Imamiah’s heart as it was on his own. Their first connection, furtive and illicit, and then their second, defiant and powerful; the staggering warmth and love that passed between them still came to Aziraphale in moments of weakness or loneliness thousands of years after the fact. Whatever trepidation Imamiah now felt was given to him by heavy hands and terrible, effective conditioning.

When it became apparent to the man that Aziraphale would not lower his hand, Imamiah timidly shook his head. “No,” he implored. “This is not about me; were you not listening? I was remade for a new purpose, and it is as inescapable as it is terrible. If you stay below ground, you will be safe. You _must_ stay safe, please-”

Unconsciously, Imamiah brought his gloved hand up to chest as his heart quickened its thrumming, tightly gripping his vestcoat. “My die has been cast. I will be Judged when I return. This… this will be our very last meeting, as I will not be looked on with any favour or kindness by the Divine Hosts when I finish here and Ascend. You cannot help in that, and I must insist that you hide. Hide, and be safe so that I may go to whatever end awaits me with some token of hope other than-...”

“Imamiah. My -” Aziraphale saw that awful flinch, just a flicker of fear in his eyes, as if he expected to be struck, and fell silent. “Imamiah,” he tried again, softly, as if coaxing a wild creature. “For your sake, not my own, I’ll do as you ask. Come the morning, they can have no objection to me giving comfort to those in need.” And there would be many. He looked up, hearing the wind scream outside, drawing the fire up into the flue in a bright, narrow spire, like a sword.

“But surely… is there nothing I can do to ease your hardship? She might require our obedience, but I cannot accept that She desires your pain. You’ve already paid a greater and harsher penalty than should ever have been demanded of you. Am I so foreign to you now that my healing would be injurious?”

“No, not foreign in the least,” Imamiah reassured, the static of his trepidation easing slightly. “It’s not _you_ I fear, Aziraphale, it’s...” Hesitating, the man drew himself back from his recoiled position and sat with his legs folded, placing his hands in his lap. As he spoke, he studiously pulled at the black leather gloves, cautiously and languidly removing them. “It was not only Paradox. I was made to learn a new… a new purpose. With my new title of… of whatever I am, they worked to ensure that I knew the rules. Especially those that my dissent created.”

Casting his eyes down at his bare hands, those silver orbs reviewed their lines and he thought on all of the destruction and pain they had brought. He could not touch Aziraphale with those hands. “I do not hurt so much as you may believe. I’ve learned my lessons. I understand the wrongs I’ve committed, my transgressions against Heaven and the Almighty, and it will all be resolved soon enough. In a way, it brings me a bit of peace.” A meager smirk tugged the corner of his mouth briefly and he shook his head. “You must understand, none of this is your fault, Aziraphale. I was created imperfectly, broken. My unforgivable sin was not the Ark. None of this is your burden. Please believe that.”

“If your creation was less than perfect, then neither does the fault lie with you.” The wind began a renewed assault on the shutters, and Aziraphale shivered. _You mustn’t._ The rules were ingrained into each of them, some newer - the Regulation of Principalities, some older - She is Infallible. But none of them, he was certain, superseded the words he had woven into his essence. They were Her words, that had brought him into being, and they had come first.

_Protect the Innocent. Love the Fallen. Live in Joy._

“No-one is unforgivable. No-one, Imamiah. Her compact with the world relies upon it. One day, even the Adversary must return to Her grace. Each of us strays in some way - is proud, or timid, prodigal, selfish, thoughtless or unkind. But there has to be an end to pain. There _has_ to be forgiveness.”

He offered both hands once more, and immediately:

_You mustn’t._

_Free will,_ he thought, and briefly saw Crowley, surrounded by huddled children, wooden walls, the crashing of waves.

_Her Will._

_My will._ A sword, pushed into the hands of a baffled Adam. _I will._

The roof of the apartment creaked with strain as the storm kicked up, grabbing at every beam as if testing their hold. Though the world outside railed and rumbled, the clamour died away from Imamiah as he stared at Aziraphale’s hands outstretched towards his. That ingrained trigger of repulsion beat against his ribcage, crying out for him to flee, asserting that were he to ignore his conditioning he would come to grievous harm. Swallowing audibly past the rising sickness and terror, he lifted his trembling palms in response, fighting against every voice that screamed for him to stop.

“...I am trusting you,” he murmured, meeting Aziraphale’s gaze with a countenance dueling between fear and hope. “Please… if…” The words caught behind his teeth as his stomach lurched and he looked away. His wide hands hung just above the other angel’s, so close he could feel a faint shimmer of energy between them, searching for an anchor. Once more, he breathed deeply and brought his eyes back up.

Imamiah’s voice trembled, barely reaching above the howling storm: “...you may share freely of me, just.. whatever you may find within, know that I am wholly shamed. Please… forgive me.” Shutting his eyes against the fear, and the pain, and the storm, the principality lowered his palms onto Aziraphale’s and let himself go.

There were walls here. Not of Imamiah’s making, not the natural barriers of spiritual topography, but rigid and immovable, like the walls of Eden. Aziraphale sighed, sending a brief, simple intention towards the fire, that it would neither die nor blaze out of control, and dismissed the outside world.

He pictured stone. Rough and weathered by the celestial elements. Blocks that would tower over a human, in the simplicity of mortal dimensions. The principality set his mind against them, lowered his head and _pushed._

Like all things created piecemeal, and with more haste than thought, the walls had weak points. Places of give and erosion, patched by remorseless conditioning. _Only stone,_ Aziraphale thought, hoping it would reassure Imamiah. _And stone is only sand. It flows. All things flow, given time._ He recalled the night of the Flood, and how Her love had been a tide between them, replenishing and circling in deep, powerful currents.

In Eden, he’d thrust his hands into the wall, driving stones out to tumble into the surrounding desert. But now he was breaking _in,_ and greater care was required. He directed the current against a weak point, chipping away at the hard, uncaring surface, seeking the familiar glow of his kin on the other side.

A powerful shudder wracked Imamiah and he curled inward, his weathered hands gripping Aziraphale’s tightly as his mind disappeared, plummeting him into that divine space created by their touch. Before, that land was a golden, fathomless sea that he and Aziraphale had only, with painful brevity, dipped their fingers in at the shoreline. Now he was somewhere else entirely, and within his mind and soul he was infinitesimally small, bound in a choking, inescapable darkness. He longed to cry out at the prison of night, to scream and tear it all away scrap by virulent scrap, but the blackness had him stockaded. Pitching against his restraints, he writhed until the weight distorted, no longer the coils of a steel rope but instead taking on the feel of familiar hands, holding him down. 

A gutteral sob escaped Imamiah as he tried to shake off the hands, but they easily overpowered him. His head hit a hard, cold surface in the blackness as the memories gripped and shoved him down, working to subdue him. Struggling against their impossible strength, his face slipped to the side and his wide eyes desperately combed the endless void around him. If he searched hard enough, deep enough within, he knew he would find it. That memory that kept him cogent through nearly a century of Paradox, that fought back the crushing totality of reconditioning. Far off, miles away in that darkness, a pin pushed through and retreated, leaving behind the faintest sliver of light and with it, the memory alighted.

It was a simple, comfortable-looking mud-brick home. An attractive cloth hung neatly in place of a door. Imamiah’s hand reached out and pushed it aside, unveiling a cluttered scribe’s studio. The single room held several lifetimes of hopes and kindnesses in the form of fabrics, baskets, tablets, urns, and small trinkets stacked in loving, meaningful ways. At the centre of the affectionate space was a broad work table stacked with fresh clay, rags, a sullied pot of water, and several dust-coated carving tools, and before it a man was seated on a small stool. The angel stepped in and the man turned, his handsome face shifting from uncertainty to curious optimism.

And he smiled.

Bucking and twisting wildly, Imamiah pitched himself forward towards that light. _Aziraphale._ He felt the hands struggle to keep hold of him as he jerked away, loosening their grip step by dogged step. Again, the pin stabbed through the black curtain, leaving another small star of hope against a terrible, endless night sky. _Aziraphale._ Whipping his body violently, he finally felt the last tormenting finger disengage and he scrabbled towards those minute lights, now grown to three as another cut through the black. Terrified to look behind at what pursued him, Imamiah threw himself at the lights, pounding and tearing at the edge of the darkness in desperation.

“AZIRAPHALE!”

Dust shook from the insurmountable stone wall before the principality as he heard his name, clear as a bell tolling on the other side. With great deliberation, Aziraphale kept his current steady, chiseling carefully away at the growing fissure in the masonry. The wall shuddered with another violent beat, and then another. The fracture splintered before him, splitting into a long, thin maw. Seizing his chance, he focused on the thread of darkness at the centre of the breach and spilled forth a metred surge of energy. The pounding stopped, and for a moment his optimism wavered until a hand suddenly burst through the wall in a cloud of grit and debris. It swiped at him desperately, and the principality grabbed hold without hesitation and pulled. The section of wall crumbled and caved, falling down and away from them, leaving high-reaching edges far up and around, jagged and fresh. Aziraphale noted them, hoping for a time when he could break down the remainder of the terrible wall, but for now…

“Brother,” he smiled, appraising the man. In their minds and hearts, Imamiah now appeared as he had in Mesopotamia, though the regal earth tones of his tunic and wrap-cloth were instead a gleaming white that radiantly mirrored his marvelously extended wings. Drawing the man close, Aziraphale closed his eyes and pressed a hand at the back of his head comfortingly. The blackness and the rubble faded away and was gradually replaced by that endless golden sea as the Love within them both bubbled up and pooled. From the distant, far-away place that was Aziraphale’s London apartment, he felt tears on his neck as Imamiah wept, and he pulled the man tighter against him.

The surf churned and rose, swirling upwards until it drowned their midsections, filling them both with a dazzling intoxication. Aziraphale exhaled contentedly and then paused as he felt something else in the sea, a strong current distinctly separate from the rest. In his millennia sharing and spreading Her Divinity, the principality felt all manner of celestial and mortal loves. Familial bonds, youthful pinings, impassioned desires, selfless sacrifices. The range was astounding, and despite his wealth of experience, he now found himself filled with a sudden, profound love that he had only ever gleaned second-hand. It reminded him of flashes of love from impassioned words breathed in the dark corners of drinking halls; of wistful promises that lingered on lockets and at the corners of handkerchiefs; of vows spoken before the Almighty to the happy clamour of wedding bells.

Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered open and he looked down at the man he held tightly in his arms. “Imamiah…” he breathed, his brow pursed with uncertainty. Imamiah hesitated and then pulled his face back, his silver eyes brimming with self-loathing and heartache. Tears spilled over onto his damp cheeks and he gasped, unable to say the one thing he’d had at his lips from the moment he first beheld Aziraphale at his desk, stylus in-hand and a faint smudge of clay on his cheek. This was the principality’s true transgression. His greatest sin.

At the edges of his vision, Imamiah thought he spied the darkness creeping up on him again, felt the hands tactfully rising up behind him, readying to strike out. Screwing up his eyes tightly, he fought back the growing fear and decided. At that, the offending blackness melted away, leaving him fully in that golden sea with the angel who had taken his hand on that hot, beautiful desert night. Imamiah exhaled a long, steady breath and his eyes slowly reopened, all traces of fear erased. Gradually, he slid his rough hand up the principality’s chest until it sweetly cupped his cheek, fingers delicately brushing the edges of his silken white-blonde curls. A flood of love - Imamiah’s love - spilled out of himself into Aziraphale like the hot torrent of a wild summer storm. An eon passed as they lingered in one another’s eyes, and then Imamiah’s softly closed as he drew himself up and enveloped Aziraphale in a tender, searching kiss.

 _Oh…_ Aziraphale, in unfamiliar territory, neither returned the kiss nor drew back from it. The sensation wasn’t unpleasant, but it was different, somehow - unlike a kiss bestowed in benediction, it gave generously of itself and asked for reciprocity. This was the ‘flaw’ in Imamiah’s creation, then? The capacity for human love?

He was overwhelmed with compassion and frustration at the unfairness of the other principality’s lot. _Why would you do this to him?_ He flung the thought, wildly, towards Heaven. _Why would you create just one?_ The unicorn, languishing aboard the great ship, deprived of kin, had grown sickly and thin. Within a year of the floodwater receding it had perished. _Nothing should be entirely alone..._

Disengaging as gently as he was able, Aziraphale guided Imamiah’s head to rest against his shoulder, careful that nothing interrupted the warmth of the tide between them.

“My dear… oh, Imamiah, is this what you called a sin? The only error in all of this is that She made you with a greater gift of love than any other. I only wish that I had been made your equal.”

The sublime tide that grew and swelled between them slowly, gently calmed as the undertow of Imamiah’s love retreated, drawn back into his heart and put carefully away. Stillness glassed the surface of the sea, and they lingered in the warmth of what comfort still remained for a moment more. Imamiah stirred and pushed himself up, releasing himself from Aziraphale’s arms. Stoically, though not unkindly, he retrieved his gloves and moved to his jacket at the back of the chair. Folding the heather coat over his arm, he tucked the gloves into their pocket and turned to the angel still seated before the blissfully crackling fire.

“Thank you for releasing me,” Imamiah half-smiled, his tone genuinely grateful. “And… and for understanding. I could ask for no greater gift from anyone, least of all from you. The storm will hit just before dawn. You have several hours before you will need to find shelter, if there is anything you would like to save or affairs you must put to order before then.”

Aziraphale looked about the room, troubled. The wall lined with his carefully-curated book collection. Trinkets and keepsakes saved from centuries of his long and fascinating relationship with humanity. The storm might take them all. _Nevertheless…_

“For as many hours as you have remaining, if you will, spend them here. If I cannot give you…” he shaped the air in front of him, closing off one small sphere of the universe with his hands, “...all that you should have, let me at least give what I have. It’s yours, freely and without reserve.”

He didn’t rise; if Imamiah wished to stay, he should do so without further urging. Free will, he thought again. _You were the one who said first that we had it, little brother. Use it, now._

Instead, carefully aware of the proximity of the fire, he unfolded his wings and arched them forward, making a space before him that had room for the other angel, and shut out the rest of the world for as long as was left before the end of the night. 

Dumbstruck, Imamiah dropped his possessions onto the floor, completely forgotten. He stared at Aziraphale, looking for some hint that he had done wrong. That he had manipulated the man into his current action. The tide was broken - the tender feelings had retreated. This wasn’t the shared love of Her binding them in a divine grapple. This was… something else. Something unique, and beautiful.

A wide, genuine smile split his face and he laughed, relaxing his wings and stepping quickly up to the space. Reaching out with both hands like an eager child, he took Aziraphale up off the floor and embraced him in a tight, loving hug. Golden waves crashed between them again, an ocean as wild as it was vast, and they fell into the feeling of limitless bliss once more. Wrapping his wings around the man, Imamiah sighed and pressed his forehead against Aziraphale’s with a delirious grin. 

“So…” Imamiah eventually asked with sincere curiosity and joy, “what is ‘tea’?”


End file.
